Not Dead But Dying lyrics by Sopor Aeternus

Take my hand in the old 'Theatre Of Seven Hells',
a ferry that bowed its wings,
we call Her: 'Moon by Day'.
Life - a book of painful tongue that hurts our ears.
Flowers of the end, their seed shall grow.
Your breath shall be my coat,
the underworld is, oh, so cold.

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The dead don't feel chill,
but please, hold me warm.
The aweful night has gone; what lay before...
we can't remember.
Even Morpheus has drowned in the lament
of his own weeping shadow...